


Mark of the Wolf

by ellerean



Category: Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 13:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5709517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellerean/pseuds/ellerean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would've been nice for Volke's past and his memories to remain concealed, but war has a tendency to bring them bubbling to the surface. That, and a persistent laguz queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mark of the Wolf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shuukei (maskedmarth)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=shuukei+%28maskedmarth%29).



> Happy Nagamas!
> 
> This is based off the prompt/headcanon that Volke is wolf Branded, which I've always found fascinating. (Not because of my Branded bias... I don't know what you mean...) It's been a couple years since I've played a Tellius game, so *throws this at you*

It had been an easy enough life, once he’d stopped thinking about it. They weren’t people; they were contracts. They were coin in his pocket. They were on someone else’s shit list, not that he cared whose or why, and he returned to his relative definition of home at night with jingling pockets and a soiled blade. It had been a shadowy corner of Crimea, the type his mother used to warn him about—populated by thieves and the crooked, and by those who had nothing to offer but their bodies. He ignored them, and they ignored him, like he didn’t exist.

But none of them did, in the holy caste system of civilized society.

When he’d left “home” for the war, Volke sometimes wished he had a trinket of remembrance. But his mother had owned nothing, and he even less, and it would’ve been a distraction, anyway. He saw how the commander’s daughter held onto that old, eerie medallion, even after knowing what it was. A dark god connected her to her own mother. He’d take nothing over _that_.

But still, there were nights he couldn’t remember his mother’s face. It was a poor tribute to a woman who’d tried to raise him, despite the stripes on her back—both those she was born with, and those inflicted by her master. Volke let out a sigh, a silent wisp of breath through parted lips, as he slunk away from base. Behind him, the scent of something edible rose up. The sounds of laughing soldiers. The commander’s daughter watched him, he knew, but he preferred the solitude of a shadowy corner. He settled on a fallen log and packed the bowl of his pipe, its contents vaguely resembling tobacco, ignoring the woodsy scent of bark he’d mixed in to prolong the stash.

“Fireman.”

And now, as if playing babysitter to Greil’s kids wasn’t enough, the Queen of Hatari made her supposed stealth appearance. He'd detected that an ally had followed, naively hoping whoever it was would get bored and leave him alone. Volke didn't acknowledge her at first, kicking around in the dirt for a twig, a scrap of bark, anything. "Your Majesty," he eventually replied, not lifting his eyes. He selected a twig at random and scraped it along the edge of the log, praying to he didn’t know Who for a spark.

Nailah sat beside him uninvited, watching as the makeshift kindling flickered to life. Volke studied her from his peripheral vision as he lit the pipe, the grassy tobacco quickly catching and curling into a wisp of smoke. When she said nothing further—and he wasn’t going to willing offer anything—he closed his eyes and inhaled.

 

* * *

 

 

_His pockets were too heavy, and he jangled too much, and he thought he’d be noticed at once. He hadn’t said goodbye—he hadn’t even looked at his mother, lest he lose his nerve, but the guards were changing their shift and there was just enough time slip undetected through the closing doors. He was small, and the stolen cloak was nearly the same color as shadow. Most beorc didn’t see him at all, and he doubted this lazy guard would be any different._

_He held his bulging pockets as he hurried down the hall, squelching the sound of their obvious metallic jingle. He kept his head low, as if they couldn’t see him just because he couldn’t see them. But it mattered little—the guards were loud, and they were swapping crude stories about the slaves, and he both tried to ignore it and wondered if any of the nameless beasts they mentioned were his mother. He didn’t stop to find out._

 

* * *

 

 

The queen wasn’t one for subtleties, and he disliked that she still wasn’t speaking. He also disliked that he couldn’t see her one uncovered eye, how she’d intentionally sat on the side that would block it. He inhaled a lungful of smoke, then let it out slowly, away from his unplanned and unnecessary guest.

“Does it taste good?” she asked, nodding to the pipe.

“Tastes like smoke.” He inhaled once more, then extended the pipe toward her. “Here.”

Volke wanted to be surprised that she’d accepted, but a larger part of him wasn’t. People were easy to read, whether they were beorc or laguz. Royalty was a slight challenge. Queens were worse. He didn’t have to see her eye to know she’d closed it, tasting the traces of tobacco as she slowly exhaled. Her hands were too steady, and she didn’t cough in protest—it wasn’t her first time. She returned the pipe indifferently.

Queen Nailah propped her elbows on her thighs, leaning her chin on folded hands. “It took me a long time,” she said, “to figure you out.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And you believe you have?”

 

* * *

 

 

_His mother had always told him to remain hidden, but it hadn’t taken long to learn how easy that was. It had taken months to stop looking over his shoulder after he’d escaped Begnion, expecting to be dragged back, but eventually learned that no one had noticed. No one had cared that a slave’s runt had gone missing; he assumed they thought he was dead._

_It worked in his favor now. He wrapped the scarf around his face, only the slit of his eyes visible, gripping the jeweled hilt of the blade. He’d inherited his mother’s dark features, his brown hair curtained over his eyes as he crouched in the alley, waiting. He didn’t fidget. He became the shadow itself, and his heart hitched in his chest when the woman’s heels clacked down the cobblestone street. He caught only a glimpse of a violet cloak before springing from the shadow, not even a flash of the dagger before it sank into the traitor’s back._

_A gurgling rose in the woman’s throat, like she was drowning. Volke grit his teeth as he yanked the blade back, concealing it in the folds of his own cloak. He was gone before she hit the ground, the thump of her bloated body and the cry of agony following him down the alley._

_She wasn’t dead. She was supposed to be dead._

Messy _, he thought, imagining her grappling for the cobblestones as blood gushed from her open wound. He still got paid, whether it was a swift or a slow death, and no one would come to her aid at this hour, in this part of the city._

_But—he’d have to improve._

 

* * *

 

 

Nailah straddled the log to face him, close enough to inhale the pipe’s smoke. Her thick hair bristled his skin, and he had half a mind to walk away. He scanned the surrounding trees. There was no discernible enemy close by, but he sensed comrades surrounding them in their own attempts at solitude. And to the right, in a half-hearted attempt to remain hidden, Volug was in wolf form, curled on the ground pretending to sleep.

Nailah finally leaned back, allowing him space to breathe. “We all have secrets,” she said. “You learn that quickly in a war. You can smell them here. In Hatari, there aren’t many secrets among my people.”

Volke stared at the shadows between the trees. “You’re supposed to believe that,” he said. “You’re at the top.”

“We’re wolves,” she replied. “Secrets don’t remain secret for long.”

He smirked. The dying embers in his pipe sputtered to nothing, a few smoldering traces of tobacco that he hadn’t enjoyed much, anyway. He tapped it out against the log, then dug his heel into its remains. The faint smell of smoke lingered.

“If you know,” Volke said, “then there’s nothing for me to say.”

 

* * *

 

_There were always nightmares. Some he thought were real, some were impossible to be real. Senators sneaking into his mother’s den. Her lifeless eyes. The cold trickle of blood down his back over opened scars. Brushing his mother’s fur, which came off in clumps. There was shouting, always shouting. He’d wake with a hand over his mouth, an attempt to squelch the scream even as he slept._

* * *

 

Queen Nailah wore less a smile than a smirk, something all too knowing, an intention to taunt him. “These prejudices don’t exist in Hatari like they do here,” she said.

Volke stared at the empty, charred interior of his pipe. “How nice for you.”

Any assassin worth his salt wouldn’t be surprised by another’s movements. But it was still unexpected when she reached out to him, fingertips brushing his temple. He sat in silence as her touch fluttered across his forehead, over the strip of cloth he perpetually wore to conceal it. It was near his temple, where her hand lingered. And though the mark had as many nerves as a freckle, or a birthmark—that is, nothing at all—he still felt the burn beneath her touch. He wasn’t so stubborn to deny curiosity. “How do you know?”

“Volug guessed first.” He grimaced. He’d been openly discussed, in public. Without his knowledge. “We didn’t think there were any outside Hatari.” _Here I am_ , he thought in silent contempt. For who, or what, he couldn’t decide. “You can return with us, after the war.”

“Why would I want that?”

 

* * *

 

 

_He bolted up in bed, hands on his thighs, panting. The nightmares were as crisp as day, as if his mother were lying beside him; he looked up expecting to see the virgin robes of a Begnion senator. He tried to envision his mother’s smile instead. The way she’d ruffle his hair. The way her arms enveloped him as he slept, tucked to the warmth of her chest. The flutter of her fingertips over the Mark on his forehead._

_“Get out of here the first moment you can,” she’d whispered. “Save yourself first.”_

_Volke clenched his hands into fists. The previous day rushed back at him like the great flood, but he would’ve preferred the nightmares. The report from Begnion that the slaves had been freed. The report of the ambush at the border. The report of the few survivors._

_That man from Grann had intercepted him as he’d tried to run. “You’ll be safe with us,” he’d called out, though Volke hadn’t stopped to chat._

_He sprang from bed, grabbed his cloak and daggers, and went out into the night._

 

* * *

 

 

Nailah rose to stand, discreetly brushing the dirt from her tail. He followed, not out of any real desire, but it was a jerk reaction. He disliked being spoken down to. “Many left Hatari generations ago, and never returned." She began to pace, her steps silent over the dirt and crushed leaves. "We believed they’d perished in the desert. Imagine my surprise when I learned they’ve been enslaved.”

Volke crossed his arms.

“There must be so many.” Nailah stopped and stared up at night sky, as if speaking only to the shadows and trees. Or whatever Goddess they were supposed to pray to now.

His own voice was dead in his ears. “The slaves are dead.”

It was impossible not to have heard him, but she offered no reaction. She stared at the canopy of trees above them, and for a moment he considered leaving. It wasn’t a conversation he’d initiated. It wasn’t one he was interested in continuing.

“You haven’t eaten,” she said. “Mist is concerned.”

A sudden chill swept through the trees, and he shivered.

“There may be something left,” she added.

He smirked. “Five thousand gold.”

Nailah peered over her shoulder, but then shrugged. It was a wordless departure, not even a wave as she headed back in the direction of camp. She was still visible even as she approached the rest of them, with that bush of a tail at her backside and the moonlight glinting off the marks encircling her skin. Volke collapsed down onto the fallen log and massaged his temple, as if he could erase what lay beneath the makeshift headband.

He’d almost forgotten about Volug. The wolf drifted from the shadows, like any other beast that would venture into the woods, like he belonged there just as much as anyone else. He stopped right before Volke and pawed at the ground, as if he were alone. He circled around once and then settled down, his warm bulk blanketing Volke’s feet and ankles.

The wolf’s ears twitched, and he whined low, already drifting into sleep. Volke stared at the top of his head. They may be in the midst of war, but his coat was gleaming. He'd killed just as much, if not more, than the rest, but Volug was uneffected. He was doing his duty. He was loyal to his queen. Volke tentatively reached down—one excruciating inch after another—to scratch the space between his ears, just the spot a wolf would prefer.

 “You’re all right,” Volke muttered. “You don’t try to _talk_.”

The snort in reply could have been a laugh, or it could have been contempt.

“Move over.”

He didn’t think a word was understood between them, but when Volke knelt to the ground there was just enough space between the wolf and the log for him to fit. The ground was hard, and stray twigs dug into his side. He slapped at something crawling up his arm. The warmth of Volug’s fur was on his back, further comforted by the steady rise and fall of his body as he breathed.

Volke stard wide-eyed into the dark. He didn’t sleep; he rarely did. But _someone_ had to take first watch.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ([Here](http://soanvalcke.tumblr.com/post/137197780558/) on tumblr.)


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